A Kiss is a Lovely Trick
by scriptmanip
Summary: Katie Fitch tells a different story of what happened in Gen 2.


**Author's Note:** I've no real idea where this is going or what story I plan to tell except that, I plan to do so through the genius of Katie Fitch because, well, why the fuck not. If you've read my other stories, you know I ship Keffy and I ship it hard. So, you know, that's on the horizon. Otherwise, let's just say this is a reimagining of series 4 with the possibility of some post-college bits as well. Or, in other words, the possibilities are endless. AREN'T YOU INTRIGUED? The summary is crap, but drop me a line, letting me know what you think of this first chapter [fookyeahskins, this means you], yeah?

** I think these disclaimers are so funny, but every now and then I enjoy reminding you all how I don't own Skins or its characters. So there: I don't own KFF. But I'd be her best mate in a fucking heartbeat.

** Title of the story is from an Ingrid Bergman quote I find to be rather lovely: "A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous."

* * *

You're about one, sympathizing kiss to the forehead away from fucking losing it on her. The slowed tone when she speaks, the click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth after she's commented on your recovery – on your _resilience_, for fuck's sake – is making your skin itch. Because your mum, she's not exactly known for her soothing temperament; so the fact that for weeks she's been hovering about – making you tea [delivering it to your fucking bedside at that], pressing her palm to your head, and leaving kisses on your now-grown-out fringe – is nearly as irritating as watching Emily try to hide the grin she's been wearing since the Love Ball whenever she's in your sodding company.

At this point, even given your general distaste for Naomi Campbell, you'd prefer Emily prattle on about her relationship [if that's what they've decided to call it this week], about being _in love_, instead of knowing she's repressing her happiness for your sake. And partly, you know it's because, when the roles were reversed, you never _once_ extended her the same courtesy.

You take down all the posters from your side of the room one day, and it reminds you of this episode of _Dawson's Creek_ – the plotline was something terribly, fucking clichéd about losing yourself in your own passions until you've got no real clue who you are anymore. So you're stood in-between your bed and Emily's, staring at these blank walls and thinking about how, in the end, Dawson somehow reclaims his own identity by hanging a fucking John Lennon poster. And then you fall, face first, onto your duvet because – it's fucking pathetic you've even drawn that parallel in the first place, but also – your posters weren't even your _passions_. And the fact that you could be defined by your infatuation with David Beckham's abs is easily more depressing than the parallel you've just made with Dawson's _fucking_ Creek.

"The fuck are you doing?" Emily says from somewhere behind you.

And you can't even be arsed to roll over so your response is muffled against the bed when you say flatly, "I fucking hate The Beatles."

After a beat she goes, "Um, alright."

She's always addressing you like this now, and it's almost more infuriating than her previous defiance to, like, become her own person. Always speaking slowly, carefully, like if she slips and shows any bit of resistance to your train of thought – whether you sound like a sodding mental patient or not – you're likely to break apart.

You don't feel necessarily fragile – no more so than you did before – so you're not really sure why everyone's been padding about, trying to keep from disrupting whatever false calm has settled over the house in the early weeks of summer. And anyway, if you're able to withstand blunt force head trauma, for fuck's sake, you're probably a good deal sturdier than everyone's letting on.

* * *

You'd never, _ever_ tell her – because you'd just as soon shag Cook as eat crow on your initial assessment of Emily's girlfriend – but Naomi's sort of funny when she's stopped being such a cunt. When she's stopped trying so fucking hard to be miserable. Then again, you think everyone's stopped trying so hard lately.

So she's started playing this game where any time she's trying to prove a point or just get Ems to shut the fuck up or, actually, you're starting to think there aren't really any rules to the game at all. But either way, Naomi will just blurt out 'JJ,' or sometimes she'll mumble it, cough it under her breath, just loud enough to make Emily balk, blush furiously red and close her mouth if it's been left open, or stomp away [depending on how long Naomi's been at it].

And it really shouldn't be funny because – aside from his frustratingly, long-winded tics, or the way he rattles off useless facts that _no one_ bloody cares about – you've never really had anything against JJ. If anything, you probably should have given him a fucking medal or a couple quid or something for shagging your sister. Since it meant that, for at least one, blind moment, she wasn't fucking trailing hopelessly after Naomi. Except that you'd been too consumed with your image; and if Emily was going to try it on with anyone, JJ was probably the last, fucking person on your list of acceptable people.

Still, Naomi taking the piss about it shouldn't be a laughing matter, but it _is_ actually pretty funny – so much that half the time you end up biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep from, like, _laughing_. Because you can't think of anything worse than giving Naomi the impression that you're actually enjoying her fucking company.

Exactly one time, Emily attempts to level the playing field by bringing up a snog that Naomi apparently shared with Cook earlier that year. And you're absolutely shocked for a full minute, realising that for all your bravado about controlling Emily, about keeping her reigned into your shadow where you could keep watch, you clearly weren't paying attention to _anything_.

Your stunned expression wears off just around the time Naomi is saying, "Pretty sure Cook doesn't own teddy bear pyjamas, babe," with as much swerve as you've ever heard her address anyone.

And it's then you remember – right, Naomi's a total bitch, but she's also, like, tall and blonde and sort of pretty when she's not running her fucking mouth. Which is all a typical bloke would care about anyway, so no, you shouldn't be surprised that Naomi's snogged someone you've always _secretly_ considered rather, fucking fit. And anyway, Cook's about the _least_ particular wanker you've ever met. He'd probably shag an open wound if he found himself short of slags.

* * *

It's thus far the weirdest summer of your life. Not because you're spending it tethered to Emily, but because – as ridiculously shallow as it still sounds when you say it over in your head – you've honestly never _not_ had a boyfriend. And the idea that you're now playing second fiddle to your sister and her girlfriend isn't nearly as depressing to you as you often think it should be. Because mostly you spend your time thinking how Emily filled this role for _years_ without ever having much to say about it. Or maybe, you just never allowed her to have an opinion.

You're stood in front of the wardrobe you still share with Emily one morning and realise you haven't been shopping in ages. And also, that you hate nearly every piece of clothing your fingers trail against as you sift through the skirts and tops. You think about ringing Emily – who still hasn't reappeared after fucking off with Naomi late yesterday afternoon – because you've never really been good at navigating the bus routes into the city, nor do you fancy being seen out _alone_.

But when you find your phone on the bedside table and look to see that she hasn't even bothered to text saying she'd stayed over at Naomi's, or asking you to cover for her, or letting you know she's not, like, dead in a gutter, you suddenly think: fuck it. You won't let yourself be concerned with _needing_ Emily anymore if she's clearly decided to not give a fuck either way.

* * *

You end up on Park Street, carrying two small bags of clothes you're sure you never would have worn last year, and feel sort of proud that you've both ventured out on your own _and_ managed to reinvent some of your bold fashion choices. It's when you see Thomas – by himself, outside a record shop across the street – that you think of Pandora, who, by proxy, always makes you think of Effy. Who, in turn, always makes your fingers twitch with a need to touch your scar.

Before he sees you, you're assessing his outfit because, it's just what you _do_ for chrissake – take in people's choice of fashion and judge them accordingly – and you can't help it. It's why it's taken a great deal of restraint and, like, _acceptance_ to allow yourself to be seen in public with fucking Naomi Campbell. But Thomas, in his fitted tee shirt and low-hung demin, looks right at home on Park Street – so much more assimilated than he was that first night you all met him. He's bobbing his head to the music pumping through outdoor speakers at the record shop and wearing those big, puffy headphones around his neck – the kind every, fucking hipster has started to use when listening to music in public – but the sight of them on Thomas just makes you smile.

You hesitate for about half a second, but then, you've always liked Thomas for his bizarrely courteous mannerisms and warm smile. So you cross the street.


End file.
